


Dressed in Silhouette

by salire



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salire/pseuds/salire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter <em>knows</em> that guns aren't Neal's style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed in Silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/collarkink/516.html?thread=101124#t101124).

Peter _knows_ that guns aren't Neal's style. He knows it the way he knows that the only color that looks godawful on Neal is pea green and in the way he knows that Neal's only tell is that his eyes blink about a half-second faster when he's lying than they normally do.

But that doesn't mean he's stupid. And, like it or not, Neal is a convict. So, when Neal tells him he's carrying a gun, Peter _has_ to draw his weapon and make slow, calculated progress toward him, one step, pause, two step, pause. "Neal," Peter says, low and calm, "if you have a weapon, take it out and put it on the floor."

Neal raises his hands, spreading his fingers and smiling. "Aren't you afraid that I'll shoot you in the process?"

Peter isn't, not really. He should be, he knows. He just _isn't_. "Just put the damn thing on the floor if you have it."

Neal shakes his head. "No can do, Peter."

Peter hates the way Neal says his name, enunciating the consonants, putting more emphasis on the 't' than he should.

Peter sets his jaw. He's not even siting down his gun. It feels like he won't have to. He knows Neal. He knows Neal doesn't want anyone's blood, let alone Peter's.

His careful steps finally bring him to Neal, and they're face to face. Neal is still smiling. Peter can see the little dimples in the corners of his mouth. "Give me the gun, Neal."

There's a glimmer in Neal's eye when he says, "No."

Peter's training kicks in then, and he grabs Neal's wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him against the wall.

"Peter," Neal grunts, the wind knocked out of him, "Peter, gentle hands. This is not how you play with others."

Peter rolls his eyes and holsters his weapon, keeping Neal's arm twisted high enough to keep him still. "This is not a game, Neal. Spread your legs."

Neal does as he's told (for once in his _entire_ life), moving his feet a little apart. "Life should be a game, Peter."

It's such a typical Neal thing to say. It's, of course, infuriating and partly true, and Peter puts just that much more pressure on Neal's arm. "Stay still, you little bastard."

Neal hums in the affirmative, resting his cheek against the wall to watch Peter. He doesn't move.

Peter only has one free hand, so he uses it as best he can. With just about anyone else in the entire criminal world, he'd probably just check the basics: side, hip, thigh, ankle. But Neal is an artist above all else. If he had a gun, he'd be creative in its placement.

Peter pulls Neal's jacket from his shoulders, releasing his arm to take it off and toss it to the side. "Put your hands on the wall."

Neal slowly complies, pressing his palms flat and spreading his fingers apart.

Neal's sweater is soft, the same shade of blue as his eyes. Peter hates that he knows the shade of his eyes. His hands slide forward, across Neal's chest, and Neal stops breathing. Peter pushes his hands forward and down, over Neal's stomach. Neal's abdominal muscles involuntarily ripple under his fingertips. Neal lets out his breath then, closing his eyes.

"You don't have a gun, do you?" Peter asks.

Neal hums again. "Maybe I do. Probably, even. I'm a convict, after all. You don't want to be wrong, Agent Burke."

God, Neal is absolutely infuriating. Peter keeps his hands moving, sliding onto Neal's hips, curling into Neal's hipbones. There's something in Neal's pocket. Not big enough to be a gun, but.

Peter slides his hand into the pocket anyway.

Neal's breathing hisses then, a quick, deep in-out. Peter notices that he presses his crotch into the wall. Great. He's got a con artist with a hard on in his hands, one of which is in his pocket.

He pulls the object from Neal's pocket and feels his face heat up. "Lube, Neal?"

Neal laughs, quiet and shaky. "It shouldn't be that surprising."

Peter can feel a headache growing behind his eyes. "The saddest part is that it's not. You're losing your touch."

"Mm," Neal laughs. "You're not losing yours."

Peter is so damn glad that Neal's eyes are closed. He can't see how red Peter is going right now, and he can't notice the fact that he's getting hard, too. "Are you even capable of shutting up?"

"With the right kind of prompting," Neal says, his mouth curling into that stupid, lazy little smile. He repositions his feet, and his ass is suddenly, literally, right on Peter's dick, and. Christ. "Don't you have a job to do, Agent Burke?"

The blood in Peter's brain must be transferring too fast. He almost forgot what he was doing. He swallows hard, his breaths out shifting the fine hairs on the back of Neal's neck.

Peter purposefully drops the lube. The movement makes his dick shift against Neal's ass. Neal has got to know that he's hard, now. There's just no way he's that oblivious, even if he's not saying anything. Peter tries not to think about it.

He forces himself to keep going. Bending is painful at the point, and he tries to widen his stance a little, give himself a little extra room in the crotch, but it doesn't help. His hands slide down Neal's leg, over the firm, lean muscle there, and all the way down to his stupid Italian leather shoes.

He repeats the process on Neal's other leg, then slides his hands back up to Neal's ass, smoothing over it- just to be sure.

Neal presses back into his palms.

"You aren't carrying," Peter says.

Neal's laugh is shaky, a little raw. "Well, depends on how you look at it."

Peter wrinkles is nose. "Corny."

"I don't see your hands going anywhere," Neal says. Peter starts to move away just as he adds, "Really, if you move them now, you're just doing it because I said something."

Neal twists in Peter's hands, and Peter's grip transfers to Neal's hips. Neal smiles, opening his blueblue eyes. "Come on, Peter. Live a little."

Neal shifts his hips forward, pressing into Peter, and Peter hisses in a breath. He growls out a warning, "Neal-"

Neal swallows Peter's words, catching his bottom lip between teeth and tugging a little.

It's a good feeling, being over Neal, having Neal kiss him rough and hard. It's good, and Peter lets him do it, lets Neal devour him.

And then shoves him away.

Neal gives him a startled look, eyes wide and _blue_.

Peter feels like rubbing his mouth like a child but restrains himself. "Come on; we have to get back to headquarters."

"Peter, Peter, Peter," Neal chants, regaining his composure, "ignoring it will not make it go away."

Peter grits his teeth. "Will it make you shut up?"

Neal tilts his chin up, defiant. "No."

Peter sighs. "Didn't think so." His phone buzzes against his thigh. He checks the read out; it's Diana, come to save him again. "We have to get back."

Neal makes a face, then picks up his jacket from the floor, sliding his arms back into the sleeves. "Come on, then. Wouldn't want Diana to pitch a fit."

Peter rolls his eyes and clicks his phone on. "Yeah, Diana, we're coming."

"Just making sure you're here soon rather than an hour from now." She sounds like she knows something. Knowing Diana for as long as he has, she probably does, somehow.

"We'll be there in thirty, assuming the traffic is agreeable."

She snorts. "Sure. It's clear all the way here from your supposed location. It'll take you fifteen minutes tops."

He laughs, "Fine, fine. Be right there."

"_Peter_," Neal gripes, "come _on_."

Peter turns off his phone and follows Neal, pinching the bridge of his nose. He really, really needs an aspirin.


End file.
